


But I learned not to want

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Ace!John, Asexual Character, Asexuality, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4000966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iris breaks the kiss to lean back and take off the thin cardigan she has been wearing over her dress, and John feels himself tense against his will, because he knows this:</p><p>It’s not his first rodeo. Asexual!John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I learned not to want

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Bravado” by Lorde. 
> 
> Thanks to the lovely Reed, my muse and inspiration. <3

„I didn’t know you were such a good cook,“ Iris says, playfully circling the rim of her wineglass with her finger.

  
John leans back against the couch, giving a little shrug in response.

  
“I usually don’t get to cook for more than one, so it’s nothing special,” he says.

  
Iris’ apartment is like her: Calming, everything neat but not impersonal. There are blankets and pillows thrown on the large couch and the loveseat in the corner and photographs on the shelves. It’s _lived in_ , John thinks, an actual home instead of a string of hiding spots and safehouses.

  
Iris puts her glass down on the coffee table and leans against him, one palm coming to rest on his thigh, and John has a sudden desire to go back to the kitchen and clean up the dishes in the sink.

  
He likes Iris, with her big, understanding eyes and her hair always in a complicated knot in her neck and the way she won’t let him avoid her even when he desperately wants to.

  
Still, this is dangerous:Her sharp mind, her ability to read people just by watching them.

  
“Maybe you could get used to cooking for two from now on,” she says.

  
She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

  
He wants to say something, but the words won’t come, so John touches her cheek with his hand, fingers splayed against her delicate cheekbones. She seemed to like that, last time, and yes, she actually melts against him, half-climbing into his lap, her dress riding up on her legs and exposing the black lace edge of her stockings.

  
John understands the theory of these things: That the delicate fabric on her pale thighs is supposed to be appealing, is supposed to turn him on, but he isn’t -- he _can’t_ \--

  
Iris leans in to kiss him, teasing the inner seam of his lips until he opens his mouth for her.

  
This is the part he enjoys: Being close, kissing and nuzzling and leaning against each other, and John draws it out, his touch on her back and arms so soft, almost hesitant.

  
Iris breaks the kiss to lean back and take off the thin cardigan she has been wearing over her dress, and John feels himself tense against his will, because he _knows_ this:

  
It’s not his first rodeo.

  
\--

  
_“One of us should get up and do something,” Jessica says, her head on his chest, a hand stroking his shoulder._

  
_“Do you really think?” John says._

  
_He smoothes his palms over her back, down her sides and right up to the place over her ribs that makes her giggle and squirm away from him, ticklish._

  
_“We’re going to starve,” Jessica says, but she’s not moving either._

  
_They spent the whole day like this: Curled up in bed together in their underwear, talking and kissing and napping, and John doesn’t remember ever being this happy._

  
_“There is always takeout,” John suggests, running his fingers through her soft hair._

  
_Jessica grins._

  
_“One of us would have to get dressed to answer the door.”_

  
_John takes her right hand and entwines their fingers, kissing every one of her knuckles._

  
_“I don’t think the delivery guy would mind much,” he says, and she chuckles, lying down on her side so she’s curled up against him._

  
_She looks down at their joined hands, her thumb idly stroking the back of his hand._

  
_“Do you ever want something more, John?” She asks, suddenly very serious._

  
_John turns his head so he can look at her._

  
_Jessica pulls a face._

  
_“You know,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Maybe at some point you actually want to have sex with your girlfriend, I mean, just because I’m not - crazy about that, doesn’t mean --“_

  
_He stops her with a kiss, the rush of affection and love nearly too much._

  
_“I have never been so happy in my life,” John says, when they part._

  
_Jessica beams at him._

  
_“You know what, you deserve some pizza for that,” she says, planting a kiss to his nose and disappearing into the kitchen, John never taking his eyes off her._

  
\--

  
John tries to relax into it, to ignore the tight feeling in his stomach at the way Iris’ hands wander over his body.

  
The next moments are crucial:

  
If he can only get her to lean back and let him work on her, fingers curling against her clit or licking into her until she’s shuddering beneath him, maybe she will be too distracted to notice his lack of response.

  
Iris seems to have different plans, however.

  
She undoes his belt and kneels between his legs, nudging him a little until he spreads his knees for her.

  
“I’ve wanted to do this for some time now,” Iris says, looking up at him.

  
She unbuttons his pants so she can take him out and take his still soft cock into her mouth, and John tries to think of something, anything, to will himself into arousal.

  
\--

  
  
_“Come on, boy scout,” Kara says, pushing him against the wall, and it’s easy, in a way, because this is the job, too:_

  
_Fooling her into thinking that he likes it, pulling the trigger, cleaning up the mess, a quick hard fuck against the wall of some apartment they just ransacked._

  
_There are enough chemicals in his bloodstream to coax his body along, thinking of it as arousal and not a flight reflex, and she wraps her thighs around him, strong and determined and dangerous, and he makes the right noises and is just rough enough with her to get her off._

  
_Later, he stands under the shower in his hotel room even after all the hot water has run out, trying to wash the feeling of her off his skin._

  
\--

 

Iris looks lovely kneeling in front of him, her hair open and falling into her face, her cheeks pink and her pupils wide and dark.

  
She strokes over his thighs with her hands, which feels nice, and what she does with her mouth on his cock would probably be really effective if _anything_ worked on him, except all he feels is a vague sense of dread at the direction the night is taking.

  
John wishes that they could go back to a few minutes ago, the kissing and cuddling part without the implication of something _more._

  
He thinks about possible exit strategies already:

  
He doesn’t have the excuse of excess alcohol consumption, he barely touched his wine all evening, so he’ll have to go with something else.

  
John can feel himself tensing up more with every moment that passes.

  
John is sure that if he explains to Iris that he is damaged goods, all she will want to do is _fix him._

  
John leans down to tug lightly at Iris’ shoulders to spare her the humiliation of trying any longer.

  
Iris lets his cock slide out of her mouth, still nowhere near aroused, and blinks at him a little confused, and John pulls her up to him to kiss her, letting her slide into his lap.

  
“I had a really long week, I’m spent,” John says by way of apology, gentle, closed-mouth kisses against her lips, “I was really looking forward to dinner, though, so I didn’t want to reschedule.”

  
He can see Iris opening her mouth to say something, to talk about it.

  
As if talking has ever done any good.

  
“It’s really not a lack of attraction, I promise,” John says, tucking Iris’ hair behind her ear so he can nuzzle her neck.

  
It’s not the truth, but he likes to think it’s not a complete lie, either: He is _drawn_ to her, her laugh and smile and the way he can talk to her as if they’ve been friends for a while.

  
She smiles, a little shakily.

  
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have sprung this on you just like that ,” Iris says. “I’m a little nervous, it’s been… a while, since I’ve been with someone. And I like you, John.”

  
“I like you, too,” John says, and then they’re back to kissing again, and the tension in his shoulders eases a little.

  
Iris opens the first few buttons of his shirt so she can reach bare skin underneath, and he likes that: Her fingertips on his throat, his collarbones.

  
John strokes his hands over her thighs where she is sitting in his lap, her skin warm through the thin black stockings.

  
“Maybe I can help you out a little,” Iris says and reaches behind her to unzip her dress and to pull it over her head.

  
John presses his lips together tightly.

  
He _wishes_ that it were that easy.

  
John pushes up the hem of her dress where he has his hands on her thighs, slipping his palms between her legs.

  
“John, if this is moving too fast we can -- _oh,_ ” she gasps, when he pulls her panties aside and runs his thumb over her clit and between her folds, already wet with arousal.

  
“I think the speed is perfect, actually,” he says, when she lets herself sink against him, her forehead resting against his shoulder, her hips rocking against his hand.

  
“Maybe let me do the work tonight?” John asks, close to her ear, and Iris makes a little, high pitched sound into his shirt and grasps his arms for support, so he assumes that’s an affirmative.

  
He helps her to keep her balance when she moves from his lap to the couch so that she can lie on her back.

  
John pulls down her underwear and leans down to lick into her while his thumb is still pressing against her clit in small circles.

  
“God, John, yes,” she groans above him, legs quivering, and later, when she is moaning and shuddering beneath his touch, he makes her go over the edge over and over until she is too spent to move, too dazed to think about his pleasure at all.

\--

John brings Harold tea and pastries only to find Root perched on Harold’s desk, nudging at Harold’s chair with her foot.

  
“Aw, Harry, you can tell me,” she says, and John finds it hard to say if the warmth in her voice is genuine or not.

  
He places the cup and the little white box on Harold’s desk in respectful distance to all computer equipment, and goes to the chair in the corner to sip his own coffee.

  
“Miss Groves, I have told you all about the nature of Miss Bridges’ algorithm and my plans with it, I don’t see what other relevant information you could still need.”

  
Harold types with a little more force than usual, indicating that he’d rather change the topic.

  
After a moment, he looks up at the cup and box and turns his whole chair to blink at John.

  
“Good morning, Mr. Reese,” he says, eyes a little confused behind his glasses as if John had just materialized out of thin air.

  
“Hey, Harold,” John says softly.

  
“So, about _Beth_ ,” Root says, ignoring John completely, and Harold turns his chair back around with a sigh.

  
“Are you saying that she didn’t invite you up to her room after all? The Machine had the impression that she seemed to like you.”

  
John didn’t know that Harold apparently met someone in Hong Kong. He has been out of the loop a little with all the things going down at the police station, and this is the kind of information he surely would have noticed.

  
The tips of Harold’s ears are pink, and John actually flinches when Harold turns around to Root and says:

  
“She did. She apparently liked me _very much_ , since she did invite me up to her room. An invitation which I declined. Is there anything else I can help you with, Miss Groves?”

  
He sounds brusque, which is unlike him, and Root apparently gets the message, too, because she gets to her feet and says:

  
“Well, sorry for asking, I didn’t realize you were in such a mood today. See you later, Harry.”

  
Root walks out, heels clicking on the floor, and John takes a large gulp of his still-hot coffee, burning his tongue.

  
Harold sighs. He takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes before putting them back on and turning to John.

  
“Beth Bridges, a woman who has developed an algorithm that might help us to infiltrate Samaritan,” Harold says by way of explanation.

  
He sounds weary, and John wonders if there isn’t more to that story after all.

  
“Oh,” John says.

  
Harold gives him a look. Apparently that was the wrong reaction.

  
“I know it may be difficult for someone like you to understand, Mr. Reese, but not everyone takes great pleasure in physical relationships.”

  
“Someone like me?” John asks.

  
Harold makes a vague gesture with his hand.

  
“Miss Morgan comes to mind, and I don’t assume that you slept on Dr. Campbell’s _couch_ , either,” Harold says.

  
John is so taken aback by the resentment in Harold’s tone that all he can do is stare at him.

  
Harold seems to be surprised by his own reaction, visibly deflating, all the anger draining out of him.

  
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he says, neutral facial expression firmly back in place.

  
“Harold, what is going on?” John asks, setting his cup aside and leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees.

  
Harold looks _miserable._

  
“I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did,” Harold says quickly, not looking at John. “I apologize, Mr. Reese, it’s nothing you have done, I just -- Reacted badly to a particular implication made by Miss Groves earlier.”

  
“The thing she said about Beth,” John says, and then, because he knows that if he drops the subject, Harold will just retreat into his safe cocoon of computers and code and not come back out:

  
“Why didn’t you?”

  
Harold looks actually angry for a second, which is a first, and John realizes that this entire conversation must be hitting a nerve.

  
John thinks of Grace, the way she held that photograph in her hands, carefully tracing the edges of it with her fingers.

  
Maybe Harold is suffering more from her loss than John thought - but his reaction doesn’t read like grief to John, it reads like _shame_.

  
“I’m not interested in sex, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, getting the words out in a rush. “I struggled with that realization for a long time, and it wasn’t - always easy, at least until I met somebody with similar inclinations. Or rather, until the Machine led me to them.”

  
John closes his eyes. God, he had it all wrong.

  
“Grace,” John says, softly, the realization making him lightheaded, daring.

  
Harold is -- Harold is like _him_.

  
Harold presses his lips together.

  
“I am fully aware that most people require a certain level of intimacy in their romantic relationships, one that I’m not able or willing to provide for, so - I don’t exactly react favorably to being teased about the matter.”

  
“It’s not the same thing,” John says, and his voice sounds hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in a long time. Maybe he hasn’t.

  
Harold gives him a confused look.

  
“Sex and intimacy. It’s not the same thing, and just because you don’t like sleeping with people it doesn’t mean --“ John swallows.

  
Harold is staring at him, all bright blue eyes and a desperate kind of intensity, and John doesn’t know what to say, how to explain it, so he just says:

  
“And I think you missed something, I think that the Machine tried to tell you something and you just -- I think she led you to more than one person,” he finally manages, his voice nearly a whisper.

  
Harold’s eyes widen at that, and John’s heart is beating frantically in his chest and he doesn’t know what to _do_ , because he never thought that he could have this, that he could get another chance at this:

  
He sinks to his knees and puts his face against the side of Harold’s thigh, the soft fabric of his suit, and Harold’s hand comes up to rest against his cheek.

  
“John,” Harold says, his voice nearly trembling with it.

  
“I spent that night with Zoe cleaning out the minibar and watching Cary Grant movies,” John admits, feeling hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest, because how is it possible that after everything, they both didn’t _know_?

  
“She’s very… perceptive, and she said she wasn’t going to sleep with someone who was telegraphing in every line of their body that they didn’t want to.”

  
Harold chuckles at that, a soft, gentle sound, and John leans a little closer, breathing in his scent, wool and Sencha Green tea.

  
“Miss Morgan is an extraordinary woman indeed.”

  
John feels oddly removed from his own body, like all of this is really a dream, some strange hallucination, the light, constant touch of Harold’s fingers on his head lulling him in.

  
“What about Iris?” Harold asks, his voice all soft and careful around the edges, absently stroking through John’s hair.

  
John looks up from where he is kneeling at Harold’s side.

  
“I can’t give her what she wants, and I don’t think -- I don’t think she’s what I want, either,” John says. “I wanted her to be, but I just need … someone to look at me and see _me_ , not some cover identity or fake persona or half-truth.”

  
Harold looks down at him, his fingers tracing a path from John’s temple down to the line of his chin.

  
“But you’re right here, John,” he says, and John has to turn his head and kiss Harold’s fingertips, the soft skin of his palm.

  
Harold just smiles at him, affected in a way that makes him look completely different from the man who hired John that day, the man with all of his secrets tightly folded away inside of himself.

  
“John, would you like to fall asleep with me tonight?” Harold asks, his hand cradling John’s head as if John is something precious, something _cherished_.

  
John understands what Harold is saying, every little implication of it: Will you spend your Sunday afternoons curled up with me on the couch, will you sit next to me on a bench eating a cone of vanilla ice cream, will you be the first person I talk to in the morning.

  
Will you spend your life with me?

  
“Yes,” John says, “ _yes, yes, yes_ ,” and it’s both the most terrifying and the easiest thing he’s ever done.

 

 

\-- fin


End file.
